Notes in thinking

Monthly Archives: May 2017

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The kitchen’s windowpane sits tight ,basking in the sun’s morning glow . Our women love the sun but not when making tea.

There are trees in pane waving in the wind. Their birds chirp at dawn, their speckled throats heaving up and down, as we calmly eat breakfast.

It is not winter yet and its fog is yet to blind its eyes.Later when the sun turns angry, he will beat it down on its smoothness of cheeks ,gate-crashing kitchen invading our women’s privacy as they make our tea and the gas-flame will lose its blue face in the glare. In the end the pane has to embrace its dark night.

You may ask what it is that breeds poetry from nocturnal thought, a green inspiration from decay, a smell of infestation and death. You now turn around , excessively aware of a role soon coming to an end on the stage, while the green room there is still gaping open with dress-clothes, a paint drying in its tubes.

Our scripted dialogues point to our role’s end a green grease-paint never to be put on again a director and prompter dead in their tracks.

We still have our green faces grotesquely moving. The brows are still dancing of love and death. Can we come back to make one last show please, we ask, before we can finally go back to backwaters in our snake-boats of grotesquely paddling oars all asynchronously moving towards somewhere?

The drone goes on ‘tween the ears .Existence is a few heads bobbing up on the blue space beyond the spiked gate.

A mere serious girl clicks her shoes on the waking ground in oval motion after midnight crows pierced a night waiting for tomorrow’s early dawn .A seller man is sitting under the lake trees spilling beans on the red and blue bags.

Yesterday night we had heard another act of disappearing. As the television news hour went on as a battle of bright wits , the disappearing sound played softly in the wind.

He appeared a year ago in a balcony of some one else’s disappearing. The latter smoke was a sound we all heard in our plastic chairs. And now what a fine disappearing act he would perform ,while still in heavy-lidded sleep!

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What goes on inside

We want to know yet what we goes on inside. And the morning came ,as the poet said. Mark my dream just as the poet Strand might have said. The morning is just a dream. The cuckoo in the tree above is the very morning. Below our dream is green bench with cuckoo thoughts.
Somebody will some day weave the foggiest plot around it. My body will not figure in it and will be a third party sleeper doing nothing of it.